


Entonces y Ahora

by bunnikkila



Series: Somos Familia [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie(s), Pre-Movie(s), Romance, one couple two love stories!, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-24 15:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnikkila/pseuds/bunnikkila
Summary: Then and Now, Imelda and Héctor build a relationship - one couple, two beginnings.





	1. Inicio

** _Entonces_ **

 

“How can you  _ possibly _ be out of apples?” 

 

Imelda planted her hands on the market table, scowling as she stared at the fruit vendor. Bad enough she’d gotten to market so late after promising her brothers she’d get it taken care of quickly; now she was being denied the one thing they’d both been insistent on.

 

“I’m sorry, Señorita,” the merchant said. He really did look contrite, though whether it was sincere or simply an attempt to placate the scowling girl in front of him was anyone’s guess. “There was a large order. They’re all gone.”

 

Imelda glared silently for several seconds. Unfortunately, the staredown failed to make any apples materialize; all she got for her trouble was another apology, and she turned away in defeat to march across the market.

 

It was a small one: no other fruit stalls in sight.

 

_ Now _ what was she going to do?

 

“Excuse me! Señorita Imelda!”

 

She glanced over as someone fell into step beside her. Imelda knew the boy by sight: scruffy, scarecrow-lean, and sweet-faced, he and the slightly battered guitar slung across his back were a common fixture in the square.

 

Imelda could recall his voice clearly, easily envision songs soaring over market crowds, but his name escaped her. 

 

“Yes? What do you want?”

 

He gave her a slightly lopsided grin, hefting the basket in his arms. 

 

“You were looking for apples. Weren’t you? Here, take a few.”

 

Imelda blinked as he awkwardly shuffled the basket until the lid slipped to one side. Sure enough, it was filled with shining apples, and Imelda lifted one out before looking their owner over.

 

“And what would you say if I told you I need all of them?” 

 

“Well….” He considered. “We’d have to duel for them. If that were the case.”

 

Imelda snorted, tossing the apple in one hand. 

 

“I would crush you.”

 

“You would,” he agreed brightly. “But I’d give a very good account of myself.”

 

Imelda laughed outright at that, and the boy - Héctor, she remembered suddenly, his name was Héctor - grinned even more broadly.

 

“Are you so sure of that, músico?” 

 

“Hm.” He looked her over, good-humored features twisting to seriousness. “You do look tough. It might be better to hand over all the apples after all.”

 

“Wise answer.” She nodded. “But it so happens I only need six.” 

 

“Oh. A strictly theoretical duel.” He nodded in return, still serious, though she could see the beginnings of dimples in his cheeks. “But six is still a lot to carry without a basket.” 

 

Imelda stopped in her tracks. Héctor was right: she was empty-handed, and could easily picture her basket sitting forgotten by the door back home. Felipe and Óscar would never let her hear the end of it; she envisioned their amusement when she came all the way back with nothing to show for it and swore aloud.

 

Several people nearby gave her a scandalized look. Héctor looked impressed.

 

“Ay, no worries,” he said after a moment. “I can carry this to your place.” He started shuffling the basket again, sliding the lid into place. “And there’s room in my basket if you need other things.” 

 

“I see.” She gave him a skeptical look, one hand poised on her hip as she tossed the apple again. “And what would you ask in return?”

 

He’d want a kiss, she expected. Always a favor for a kiss with these boys. Héctor tilted his head, scrunching his nose, and she readied her rebuff.

 

“A song!”

 

“I should have--” She got half the sentence out before freezing, blinking at his smiling face. “I… what?”

 

“When I play, in the square - I want you to sing with me.” 

 

“ _ What _ ?”

 

“I play on Saturdays and Sundays, and sometimes evenings during the week,” he replied patiently. “So if we’re both here - will you sing?” He swayed gently, perhaps reacting to a melody only he heard. “It’s just, your voice - it’s wonderful, and it must be incredible when you sing.”

 

“I see.” She folded her arms, looking Héctor over. “And you would bet a basket of apples on that?”

 

“The sisters say gambling is a sin, Imelda,” he said piously. Then he grinned, rocking from foot to foot. “But yes. I would bet on it.”

 

She snorted again, making her voice as dry as she could.

 

“Listen to them talk, Héctor, and  _ everything _ is a sin. But yes - I’ll sing with you, the next time I’m in the square when you’re playing.” 

 

Héctor, impossibly, looked even brighter at this promise.

 

“A deal then! Come on, Señorita Imelda, let’s get the rest of your things!”

 

Roaming the market with such a cheerful, accommodating companion turned out to be much less of a chore than she’d been anticipating when she left home; with only the slightest encouragement Héctor joined her in endless running commentary, and the walk home was filled with friendly chatter instead of silence broken only by her own footsteps.

 

Even better, she proved him right about her voice when she finally caught him performing - a duet that turned out to be only the first of many.

* * *

 

** _Ahora_ **

 

The sun is well over the horizon, the Riveras are still lurking backstage at the ill-fated Sunset Spectacular with a small band of flustered officers keeping curious audience members at bay, and Héctor is beginning to realize he isn’t going to fade away.

 

It comes slowly. The last he remembers is being unable to distinguish the gold of Miguel’s swirl of marigold petals from the gold of the rising sun from the gold rippling and jolting along his own bones, ending in what felt like falling.

 

He isn’t falling anymore, aware of the stones beneath him and a gentle hand on his forehead in a way he wasn’t capable of a moment ago, and he opens his eyes to see Imelda hovering over him like a dream.

 

“He made it back?” Héctor whispers after a moment. Imelda nods, solemn, and he smiles. “He made it. She remembers.” 

 

“Yes. And now… now, she won’t be the last. I’m sure of it.” Imelda’s voice is as soft as his and strangely thick; he raises a hand to brush against her cheek, but she withdraws, looking up at the rest of the family.

 

Following her gaze, Héctor is struck - not for the first time - by how he knows absolutely nothing but their names for the most part. Felipe and Óscar he knows well, of course - but the other three are strangers he was only introduced to when Miguel pulled them all together. 

 

It can be fixed. There’s time. 

 

“We should go,” Victoria says quietly. “I don’t want to talk to all these people right now.” 

 

“We’ll have to eventually,” Rosita replies. She sounds uneasy, voice even higher-pitched than usual as she shifts from foot to foot.

 

“I can do it.” Héctor tries to rise and stumbles; Felipe and Óscar are on either side of him before he can fall, hefting him up between them. “I’ll handle it.”

 

“Actually, I don’t think you can right now,” Felipe says. 

 

“We know you like to perform, but there  _ is _ a limit,” Óscar adds. The twins’ voices are friendly and teasing but colored with worry and relief in equal measure; Héctor gives them both a small, grateful smile as Imelda claps her hands twice for attention.

 

“Everyone is right. Except for Héctor.” Her voice is brisk, businesslike, but Héctor can detect the worry in her tone and posture and the brief look she gives him.

 

“Thank you for your confidence, Imelda.”

 

“I am confident that we need to leave. Help him onto Pepita.” 

 

With Imelda’s brothers to bolster him, Héctor gets onto the alebrije’s back fairly easily (settled between the wings rather than clinging to the tail this time, to his depthless gratitude). It’s crowded atop the great cat, but Pepita’s spirit-guide might carries them easily down from the stage and into the city proper, where they can land out of sight of returning revelers and avoid questions for a little while at least.

 

Imelda is silent through the flight. Héctor has no great desire to prod her into conversation.

 

He can feel strength and stability flowing back into his bones, and by the time they land in Plaza de la Cruz he’s strong enough to slide from Pepita’s back unaided. The stage for the competition is still set up, and Héctor takes a few steps toward it before speaking up.

 

“We performed together, here.” 

 

“You and Miguel?” Óscar asks. Héctor nods, and he smiles as he looks up at the stage. “Hm. I’d have liked to see that.” Imelda gives him a sharp look; Óscar only blinks mildly back at her as his brother murmurs agreement.

 

“Be that as it may,” Imelda says after a moment, “it has been a...  _ very _ long night, and it would be best to go home.” She looks at Héctor, indecision flickering in her eyes; at last she takes a deep breath and says, slowly: “Héctor… are you well enough to get home by yourself?”

 

“Mamá Imelda…” Rosita begins. Imelda doesn’t scold her, or even acknowledge her at all, but even so she falls silent, watching Héctor with large, apologetic eyes.

 

They all are.

 

“It’s… all right,” Héctor says quietly. “I can make it. Imelda….” 

 

He pauses, not certain what he wants to say or can say; after a moment Imelda takes a deep breath and steps forward, laying a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Héctor.” Her voice has that curious thickness to it again, and he realizes what it is - it had only taken him time because he’s so rarely heard her cry.

 

_ Rarely hearing it and often the cause _ , he thinks helplessly, and he takes his hat in his hands to stave off the urge to pull her close.

 

“I’m glad you’re all right. I am. I’m glad you’re  _ here  _ still. But this is… it’s so much, Héctor, and I….”

 

“Need to catch your balance?” he asks softly. Imelda nods, lifting her hand away.

 

“Yes. And… decide how to deal with….” She gestures broadly. “So… not now, Héctor. Not now. But... later, we’ll talk.”

 

He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak, and Imelda turns to go - pausing only when Dante appears to stand in front of her, giving a low whine. Héctor can see her sigh as she runs a hand over the dog’s head, and then she steps around him to join the other Riveras clustered nearby.

 

Pepita is the only one who doesn’t follow her out of the plaza.

 

A soul’s moods are reflected in their alebrije, and Pepita is pacing, reluctant to leave, casting uncertain looks toward Héctor. He’s rarely seen Pepita anything but angry - fair enough, he’d decided long ago, but it doesn’t leave him prepared for the great cat’s furtive regard now.

 

“Pepita.” Imelda’s voice is soft, coaxing; Pepita tilts an ear toward her but still keeps glancing at Héctor as if trying to reach a decision. “Come along, mi gatita.”

 

Héctor can’t quite suppress a snort at that - gatita indeed! He’s  _ been _ on the wrong end of that ‘gatita’! - but goes still and silent when the alebrije turns to look at him.

 

Pepita tilts her head, staring into his face, a rumbling purr vibrating briefly through his bones. Héctor can’t look away from her, but he can hear Dante’s cheerful whine and wildly thumping tail and abruptly realizes he no longer needs to fear the great cat gazing at him mildly as….

 

Well, a kitten.

 

She blinks once, slowly, before turning to follow Imelda. Héctor relaxes all at once, staring after them.

 

“What... was that all about?” he mutters once all of them - Pepita included - are out of earshot. Dante yips and licks his hand, wagging his tail so hard his whole body wiggles with it, and Héctor smiles as he rubs the dog’s ears.

 

“You know… you’re right. It feels like a good thing.”

 

Later, he tells himself, not never - and so he heads back down to Shantytown with hope unfurling in his chest.


	2. Amistad

**_Entonces_ **

 

Héctor was playing in long strings and brief fits of notes, willing the tune to come together. It was both easier and more difficult than he’d imagined: some of it flowing forth as if it sprang fully formed from his fingers, some of it pried out of his mind bit by bit.

 

But oh, it was gratifying when the natural and the hard-sought smoothed together into one coherent sequence. Weaving together into something new, something his, something he--

 

“What are you playing, Héctor?”

 

He jumped, eyes flying to Imelda’s face. Héctor had been so preoccupied with his new pursuit that somehow the rest of the square had faded out of his awareness - including, apparently, the approach of his friend. She was standing in front of him now, head tilted as she studied him and the guitar, and Héctor cleared his throat sheepishly.

 

“Oh! Ah.” He grinned at her as she settled beside him, fingers trailing in the fountain he’d chosen as a perch. “Actually, it isn’t anything you’d….” He shrugged, glancing aside. “I’ve decided to try writing my own songs.”

 

“Have you?” Imelda sounded intrigued, and raised her brows as she studied him. “Giving yourself a bit of a challenge?”

 

“Something like that - something new for things I… you know, think and feel….” He trailed off bashfully; Imelda smiled though, nodding slightly, and he relaxed. “And maybe so - some new chords to test my skills on.”

 

He raised his hands, long fingers waving; she regarded him a long moment and then snorted, shaking her head.

 

“You look like a spider.”

 

“Oh?” Héctor held his hand in front of his own face, wriggling his fingers briefly. Decidedly spidery, he had to admit; he looked at Imelda again, casting his voice low and solemn. “Does that mean… the boot?”

 

Imelda gave him a grave look (or at least tried to - there was a slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes, and her voice carried an I’m-not-going-to-give-you-a-laugh dryness he knew well by now).

 

“You haven’t earned it. Yet.” She shifted, arranging her skirts. “And I don’t _dislike_ spiders. Play it again.”

 

Héctor straightened his back, hands poised on the guitar.

 

“So… you like it?”

 

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, a small smile ghosting across her face.

 

“I can’t very well decide until I’ve really listened, can I?”

 

“Ah.” Héctor nodded once. “True enough. A point to Imelda.”

 

“Hm. And how many does that make?”

 

“I’m not sure, but something tells me you’re winning.”

 

“It’s called ‘common sense’, Héctor.” She was smiling openly now, tipping her head toward him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

 

“I _am_ full of surprises.” He grinned, relishing her laugh, and went back to playing.

 

It was halting at first, but under Imelda’s attention the song started to bloom - notes flowing and fitting together effortlessly and, after a bit, Héctor singing wordlessly along, layering his voice into the guitar.

 

After a bit, Imelda started to sing too, echoing and weaving her own voice in. Héctor unconsciously leaned a bit closer to her, adjusting his playing minutely to account for the whims of their voices, and by the time he let his guitar fall silent he’d almost forgotten the song was new rather than something they’d sang together countless times.

 

“Do you think it’s….”

 

He turned to Imelda, and it was if he’d never seen her before. She was still singing his notes back to him, eyes closed, profile set ablaze by the sinking sun as it illuminated every eyelash, every stray hair worked loose from her braids, and Héctor’s question died in his throat as he stared at her. Immersed as she was it took her a moment to realize he’d stopped; he sighed in quiet disappointment as her voice finally trailed off, but found he couldn’t hold onto the regret when she opened her eyes and turned to him.

 

“What are the words?”

 

“I…” He faltered for a moment and then cleared his throat. “I don’t know, just yet. Melody first.”

 

“Oh.” She nodded. “Sensible enough.” She smiled, haloed by black hair and red-gold sun, and Héctor thought his heart might well stop then and there. “You’ll tell me once you know them, then?”

 

“You’ll be the very first to know, Imelda,” he said fervently. “I promise.”

 

“Well - for you, I can be patient.” Her smile widened and Héctor grinned back, following her motion as she tucked a stray lock back into her braids. “Anyway, if you’re going to be writing, here.”

 

She reached into her basket, retrieving a small book and holding it out to him; Héctor took it and opened it to find blank pages in fine, thick paper.

 

“I bought it because I thought it was pretty, but I don’t have any real use for it.” Imelda shrugged, rearranging the contents of her basket. “But you - you ought to be writing this all down, don’t you think?”  

 

“I… yes. I will.” He held the little book close to his chest, beaming. “I’ll fill it up. And you… you’ll be the first to hear. All of it.”

 

Imelda laughed, nodding.

 

“That’s a very fine promise, Héctor. I intend to hold you to it.”

 

“Honestly, I’d expect no less.”

 

They were quiet a moment, holding each other’s gazes, before Imelda got to her feet with a sigh.

 

“Well! I’m glad I give the correct impression. But my brothers are calling for me.”

 

Héctor turned to see Felipe and Óscar standing at the edge of the square. They both waved once they realized he was looking, and he waved back with a grin.

 

“Well, better not keep them waiting. I should see where Ernesto’s gotten to anyway.”

 

“De la Cruz, you mean?” Imelda’s voice dropped from warm to neutral; Héctor gave her a curious look, head tilting, and she shrugged. “Well… later, then.”

 

“I’ll look forward to it.”

 

She smiled again, nodding and murmuring agreement before hurrying across to her brothers; Héctor watched her go, still smiling faintly as her brothers took position on either side of her (teasing her, he guessed from the way she scowled and knocked Felipe’s hat down over his eyes), and then he set off to find Ernesto.

 

It wasn’t difficult. Ernesto had a way of inserting himself into groups, and by the time Héctor found him he was seated at the center of a small knot of admirers to play, singing gustily. Héctor wove his way neatly through the group to sit at his friend’s side, setting the book in his lap as he started to play counterpoint to Ernesto; Ernesto gave him a brief sidelong look and a thin smile between stanzas, and they played until dark fell and their listeners dispersed.

 

“Finally making an appearance, eh?” Ernesto knocked his shoulder against Héctor’s with a laugh. “What’ve you got there?”

 

“Oh, this?” Héctor held up the book with a smile. “I ran into Imelda today. I told her I was starting to write songs - she gave me this to keep them in.”

 

“Imelda?” There was a cautious tinge to Ernesto’s voice. “That’s... the girl? The fierce one you’ve been spending so much time with?”

 

“That’s her, yes.” Héctor smiled, absently rubbing a forefinger over the slightly uneven pages of the book. “She’s a wonderful friend. I’d really like for you to meet her formally - it’d be nice to play all together, don’t you think?” He sighed, shrugging. “She… really is something.”

 

Ernesto paused, looking at Héctor more closely. Héctor only blinked back at him, fingers curling around his book, and after a moment Ernesto shook his head and laughed.

 

“Well, don’t get too distracted, my friend! We have big things ahead of us, after all!”

 

He clapped Héctor on the shoulder, just hard enough to make him misstep slightly, and Héctor laughed and jabbed an elbow into his friend’s ribs.

 

“I’ll try to keep that in mind! Now come on, and I’ll show you what I have so far!”

 

He played well into the evening, head full of Imelda’s suntouched smile as he picked out notes and paused to write them in the little book; Ernesto listened closely, something like surprise in his face quickly growing contemplative, and by the time Héctor put the guitar aside they were already hard at work on plans and ideas.

* * *

 

**_Ahora_ **

 

“Why Héctor! You’re playing again?”

 

He looks up as Yolanda approaches, offering the old lady a smile. Chicharrón’s guitar - rescued from de la Cruz’s pool, drained and dried and lovingly restringed - is resting in his lap, and he hasn’t been so much playing as testing the sound after its dunking and repair.

 

Still, combined with his performances over Día de los Muertes it’s more than he’s done in decades.

 

“Hola Tía Yolanda. I’ve… felt a bit more like it lately.”

 

Yolanda settles in a seat across from him, eyes bright as she arranges her shawl, and Héctor retrieves the bottle at his side to pour her a glass. She accepts it with murmured thanks, studying him a moment longer before nodding once.

 

“I’m glad! And you’re looking so well, mijo… I’d hoped so, after such an exciting holiday this year.”

 

He laughs at that, well accustomed to her habit of gentle understatement. Yolanda is one of his oldest friends, a grandmother long neglected by her own family and quick to take him under her wing after his death - a pillar of his afterlife as Chicharrón was, if a different sort.

 

As with Chicharrón, he never allows himself to wonder how much time she has.

 

“That’s one way to put it, Tía.” Héctor smiles as he picks out a few chords; all seems well with the instrument. “Too bad I never had time to introduce you to Miguel.”

 

“Well, there’s always the rest of your family. You’re going back to them, aren’t you?”

 

“I--” He leaves off playing, setting the guitar aside. “I don’t know.”

 

“Hm. Why not?”

 

“Well. I…” Héctor shrugs, looking away. “I’m kind of getting mixed signals. She - Imelda - you know, my wife? - there was... ahh, I did something stupid a long time ago, and she was mad, but mostly for the wrong reason and now she’s… less mad? But she says she’s going to decide what to do.”

 

“Ah.” Yolanda nods at that. “And she told you not to bother her while she does?”

 

“Well… no….”

 

“Héctor.” Yolanda sets her glass down so she can fold her arms. “Did you try to find out? I know she’s told you to stay away from her before, but things have changed, yes? Mijo, did you even _ask_ what she wants now?”

 

“I…” He looks away, sheepish. “Well… no.”

 

She gives him an indulgent smile, shaking her head as she refills her glass.

 

“Héctor, Héctor… I’ve always considered you a bright boy. Am I wrong?”

 

He stares moodily into his own glass, sighing as he swirls its contents.

 

“Maybe you are.”

 

“Incorrecto.” She raises a fist, gently rapping her knuckles against his forehead. “Try again: am I wrong?”

 

“No, Tía Yolanda,” he says dutifully, reciting the phrase like a chastened schoolboy. Yolanda’s self-satisfied nod brings a smile back to his face, and he leans forward as she speaks.

 

“Good boy. Now tell me what - don’t lean on the table, mijo, you’ll tip it! - tell me what you’re going to do.”

 

He puts just enough weight on the table to jostle their drinks, desisting only at Yolanda’s wide-eyed pout.

 

“Well….”  

 

Héctor stalls: there’s too much he wants to do, to say, and surely he can’t be asked to settle on something with the spectre of Imelda’s anger and tenderness only a week before buzzing in his head?

 

Yolanda sighs and smiles.

 

“Where did you start from to begin with?”

 

“Well…” Héctor shrugs, smiling. “We were friends, at the start.”

 

“As it should be. Would you be content to be friends now, at least to start?”

 

“I’d be content with that if it’s all it ever is,” Héctor says softly. “Just to talk with her again, that’s… that’s amazing by itself.”

 

“There you are, then.” Yolanda leans back in her chair, waving her glass with enough enthusiasm to splash liquor over boney fingers. “Go on and start from the bottom! Ask her if she wants to see you while she straightens out her thoughts, and be her friend if she wants it.” She points at him for emphasis, her other fingers still wrapped delicately around the glass. “If she’s willing, then why wait? After all, my dear, it’s not everyone who finds someone to inspire such devotion as your pretty Imelda does for you.”

 

“Pretty!” Héctor tips his gaze skyward, addressing no one in particular. “All these times I’ve explained to her about Imelda, and the strongest she can come up with is ‘pretty’!”

 

“Ay.” Yolanda bows her head. “Then I suppose, when we are inevitably introduced, I shall have to inform her you disagreed with the ‘pretty’ assessment.”

 

“Hey, hey - I thought you were helping me.” Héctor laughs as he gets to his feet. “And it’s not disagreement! I just think it doesn’t cover even a little portion.”

 

“Hm! I look forward to seeing for myself. Now shoo.”

 

“What, you’re so eager to get rid of me? I’m going!”

 

“Please do!”

 

She tips her face up and Héctor obligingly leans down to kiss her cheek before dashing off down the dock, nearly running straight into the water when he calls back to her over his shoulder.

 

“Thank you, Tía!”

 

Héctor knows the way to the zapateria by heart, having attempted several visits when Imelda first arrived and reestablished her business; he hasn’t been in decades, not since she made it clear she never wanted to see him on her doorstep again, but their last interaction gives him hope of a warmer reception.

 

If nothing else he can speak to Felipe and Óscar - he’s missed them too, really - and maybe even the others. He’d dearly love to know Julio, Rosita, and Victoria, and surely that wouldn’t be too much to ask?

 

He’s still thinking about this - trying to place the Riveras he never knew, making little bets with himself about who fit where - when the tram pulls into the correct station, and in his distraction he nearly walks straight into a woman trying to board when he moves forward to exit.

 

It’s Imelda.

 

For a moment, they only stare at each other, Imelda looking every bit as astonished as he is: standing poised with one foot on the tram and one on the platform, eyes wide and spine stiff, at a rare loss for words.

 

Then the vehicle starts to move and Imelda, still half on and half off, makes a sharp sound of dismay as she staggers, bracing a hand against the door.

 

Without thinking Héctor picks her up and turns to place her safely on her feet inside; she rests her hands on his shoulders to steady herself and they stand like that for several seconds, both still wide-eyed with surprise.

 

The vehicle jolts, breaking the spell. They don’t leap apart, exactly, but they both step back a bit more sharply than necessary, Héctor’s hands held up placatingly and Imelda’s still hovering at the height of his shoulders.

 

“Sorry, I… sorry.”

 

“No, I….” Imelda coughs gently, looking back toward the door. “Thank you.”

 

“I… you’re welcome.”

 

They stare at each other awkwardly a moment before Héctor clears his throat and drops into a seat.

 

“So, ah. Where were you headed? Maybe I could - well, clearly you don’t need anyone to escort you anywhere, but I’m here, and while I don’t mean to--”

 

“Héctor.” Imelda’s voice is tinged with amusement as she cuts him off; after a moment she steps forward to sit beside him. “As it happens, I’d decided to pay a visit.”

 

“Oh.” He rests his hands on his knees. “To who?”

 

“ _You_ , you clown.” The phrase holds exasperation and laughter in equal measure, topped off with Imelda’s typical dryness when she’s trying very hard _not_ to be amused, and Héctor grins as he ventures a peek at her. “A surprising number of people had some idea where to find you.”

 

“I… may have achieved a certain level of notoriety.”

 

She actually does laugh at that, shaking her head; Héctor, emboldened, sits up a bit straighter.

 

“Actually, Imelda. That’s exactly where I was going!” Imelda looks at him, head tilting, and Héctor clears his throat again. “I mean… well, I wasn’t going down there. I was coming up. To visit you.”

 

“Yes,” Imelda says gravely. “I assumed that was what you meant.”

 

He chuckles nervously at that. Imelda sighs but then smiles, shaking her head slightly.

 

“Héctor,” she says after a moment. “I… have to admit, I have no idea what I intended to say when I got there.”

 

“You wouldn’t have been able to say anything, I think.” She looks at him, brows raised, and he grins and shrugs. “Everyone there has heard… a lot about you. You would have been absolutely swarmed.” Imelda _hms_ quietly at that, a small smile teasing at the corner of her mouth. “Anyway, I don’t know what I’m going to say either, so….”

 

“So we’re a pair of fools, are we?”

 

“Imelda. You know I care far too much about my safety to call you a fool.”

 

That earns him a flat look before she looks away - perhaps to hide another smile - and they sit in awkward silence until a display outside the window catches Héctor’s eye.

 

Painted blossoms.

 

“Hey - do you remember those orange blossoms you liked? In Señor Suarez’s courtyard?”

 

She looks at him again, thoughtful.

 

“Where you broke a tooth trying to get a branch for me?”

 

Héctor prods reflexively at his mouth and shrugs.

 

“No, I’m pretty sure that was when I tried to get your linens down from where that thug, that - what was his name? Where he hung them up.”

 

“You’re right. That Alvídrez cabrón, that was the one.” Imelda nods. “So? What about the flowers?”

 

“Well….” He shrugs. “We were friends, then. Before everything else. We were friends.”

 

“Yes,” Imelda says slowly. “I suppose we were, to start with.”

 

They ride in silence to the next stop; when the bell chimes, Imelda gets to her feet and turns decisively to Héctor.

 

“Well. Suppose I show you the shop, and introduce you to the rest of the family?”

 

Héctor all but leaps up, beaming at her at they step onto the platform.

 

“Of course! But, ah….” He looks back at the tram as it pulls away. “Don’t we need to ride back?”

 

“We’ll walk.” Imelda has already started down the street. “I can tell you a bit about them. And I want to hear a bit about this ‘notoriety’ of yours.”

 

He hurries to catch up, falling into step beside her as comfortably as he ever did, and even if their talk on the way to her home sometimes turns awkward it feels like a long step forward.


	3. Un Poco Loco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always a song with them.

**_Entonces_ **

 

“So, what do you think?” Héctor asked as he finished playing. Imelda, perched beside him on a bench in her courtyard, took her time pondering the question; he knew well enough to let her consider an answer, and watched her patiently as he absently plucked at the guitar.

 

Héctor had kept to his word - as the months passed and his little songbook filled up he had brought each work-in-progress and completed song to Imelda, singing and playing in her courtyard or a corner of the market or wherever he happened to find her, teaching her each song to sing with her and listening attentively to her every suggestion.

 

“Try a faster tempo,” she said after a moment. “Do you have lyrics yet?”

 

“No - I can fit them once this is perfect.” He was noting her suggestion diligently, marking it in minute, surprisingly neat lettering; Imelda leaned over to peek as he finished and started flipping pages, humming absently under his breath.

 

“What about the other one, the one you were writing the day you started?” She prodded at the book, urging him to flip back to the front. “Do you know the lyrics to that one yet?”

 

“No,” he said slowly. “That one is… something special. I have to take care with that one.”

 

Imelda sat back a bit, giving him a skeptical look.

 

“Oh? Why is that?”

 

“Well….” Héctor looked up, giving her a long, soft-eyed look. “We really worked on that one together, didn’t we? So I’m taking care with it.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m writing it for you.”

 

She stared, the tip of the lace fan she’d been holding coming to rest against her heart.

 

“I… what for?”

 

He blinked at her, looking startled at the question.

 

“You should have songs just for you. Shouldn’t you?”

 

“Why do you say that?” Under his earnest gaze she could feel a flush creeping up her neck; Imelda had never in her life hidden behind a fan like some of the girls she knew, but the temptation was undeniable.

 

“Because I love you!”

 

He said it both as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and as if it had been blurted on impulse - in fact, he _did_ look surprised at himself, and they stared wide-eyed at each other a long, silent moment.

 

Imelda had heard it from men before, but never with such sudden earnestness - always smooth and rehearsed and from men not nearly so near and dear to her as this ludicrous gangling clown of a musician currently seated in her courtyard. This was something else, something she knew already, something altogether different from the suitors she rebuffed or ignored or threatened if they pushed too hard, and she looked more closely at Héctor as she struggled to proceed.

 

His surprised look gave way to a sweet, almost bashful smile, cheeks dimpling, and Imelda thought her heart might well stop then and there.

 

She didn’t know what to do about that, so she scoffed and turned away as the heat rose in her cheeks.

 

“A-and the sky is red!”

 

She regretted the words as soon as they were out; she didn’t want to hurt Héctor, she wanted to… to….

 

Héctor was laughing. Imelda turned back to him to find him gazing at her, starry-eyed, and realized with delight and dismay that he saw right through her.

 

And then he lifted his guitar, starting in on the song she’d been critiquing, bringing it up to the faster tempo she’d suggested.

 

“What color is the sky? ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!”

 

Oh _no_.

 

“Héctor, don’t you dare--”

 

“You tell me that it's red! ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!”

 

“Are you making _fun_ of me?!”

 

Héctor shook his head, laughter creeping into his voice as he sang; Imelda, torn between appalled and charmed, could only listen as he made his way through a verse.

 

“I’ll count it as a blessing… that I’m only un poco loco!”

 

He finished with a flourish and looked at her expectantly, slightly disheveled by his own enthusiasm, and Imelda stared back at him, struggling to hold in her laughter. A lost cause: he tilted his head, wiggling his eyebrows at her and looking so absurd she all but exploded with mirth, laughing until she was sore-sided and teary-eyed.

 

Héctor, of course, looked all too pleased with himself as he laughed with her.

 

“Oh, _Héctor_ ," she said at last, striving for her usual unimpressed dryness but unable to hide the tenderness in her voice, “I don’t think you’re _just_ ‘un poco loco’.”

 

Héctor only smiled at her, picking out the notes as an echo to her words.

 

“So what if that’s true? Whose fault is it?”

 

He made the statement with such earnest warmth that she could feel her cheeks flushing again, any protests fizzling and dying at the sight of his sweet, almost giddy smile.

 

Imelda was already smiling back. She’d be furious if she weren’t so enchanted - because really, how dare he?

 

Obviously, there was only one way to handle this - so she touched the point of his jaw with the tip of her folded fan, beckoning him closer. He leaned in, eyes impossibly soft and bright, and she pressed a gentle thumb into one of his dimples as she whispered her reply.

 

“You know something… I think I’ll accept your blame.”

 

She closed the remaining distance between them in a smooth, decisive movement. Héctor stiffened briefly and she nearly pulled away - but then he leaned into the kiss, guitar falling forgotten as he carefully captured her face between his palms, rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones before sliding one hand to rest butterfly-light on her back and the other at the nape of her neck. She could feel his balance shift to accommodate her and she sighed softly, settling her weight against him as his fingers twined gently into the soft, short curls that couldn't quite be tucked into her braids and...

 

And then she heard the distinct sound of someone loudly clearing his throat.

 

They both startled, and it proved too much for Héctor’s precarious balance: he slid backwards off the bench and Imelda went down with him, both of them yelping as he landed on his back, she landed heavily atop him, and her forehead and his chin cracked against each other hard enough to click her teeth sharply together.

 

All told, it was several seconds before they recovered themselves enough to look for the source of the sound.

 

Óscar was standing in the doorway; his eyebrows seemed to be in danger of escaping into his hairline and he looked both scandalized and as if he badly wanted to laugh. Imelda groaned, shifting her weight to try to rise and only succeeding in tangling herself in her own skirts and Héctor’s unreasonably long legs.

 

 _Damn_ him. Both of them!

 

“Really Imelda? In the courtyard?” Óscar said at last. Héctor laughed, a brief helpless chortle as he tucked an arm about Imelda’s waist and rolled up to his knees, pulling her to her feet as he stood.

 

“Hello, Óscar!” he said cheerfully, not a trace of shame in his bright, delighted voice. His arm was still resting comfortably around her waist; Imelda shifted closer to wrap her arm around his waist in turn as she fixed Óscar with her most defiant stare. “It’s just such a lovely day, isn’t it? So we thought it’d be nice to sit outside for a bit.”

 

“Oh?” Amusement seemed to be winning out as Óscar stepped out into the sun, shading his eyes as he looked up. “So it is. Perhaps I’ll join you… I wonder where Felipe’s gotten to, he’ll probably like it too.”

 

“Go _away,_  Óscar,” Imelda growled. Óscar snorted out a laugh and shook his head.

 

“Propriety, Imelda,” he said primly. “Propriety forbids it.” He looked them over a long moment and laughed again. “You’re just going to have to find better hiding places.”

 

Imelda groaned again. Just like her brothers to make a game of this; once Felipe was informed she’d never get a moment’s peace.

 

“Actually,” Héctor said, voice shaded with regret, “I should be going.” He glanced over at Óscar, quirking a brow questioningly; under Héctor’s unabashed smile and Imelda’s hot glare Óscar sighed and chuckled and obligingly turned his back, and Héctor leaned down to kiss her forehead where it had struck his chin.

 

“Later, mi amor,” he murmured against her brow, the endearment given shyly, “if you’re still willing to put up with me by then.”

 

“And why wouldn’t I, you clown?” she mumbled. “At this rate it’s _them_ I’ll disown, not you.” She tipped her face up to kiss him properly and he chuckled against her, drawing gentle fingers along her cheekbone to the wisps of hair in front of her ear before pulling back. Imelda caught his hand briefly and Héctor pressed a kiss to her knuckles, peering at her with those large lovestruck eyes, and Imelda absently wondered if she looked anything close to that soppy as she watched him go.

 

Then he was out of sight, and Imelda turned to deal with her terrible, meddlesome brother.

 

* * *

 

**_Ahora_ **

 

“So – this is your office, eh?”

 

Imelda looks up as Héctor steps into the only area of the shop he hasn’t seen in his visits, hat in his hand and guitar across his back; if he weren't a skeleton, he'd look just as he had a hundred years ago. She sighs, settling back in her chair with hands resting on her desk, and addresses him in a slow, careful tone.

 

“Yes. Do you need something, Héctor?”

 

“Only to see where you work.” He peers around the room, taking in her broad desk, her sewing machine and neat row of tools, the mirror stored behind the desk and ready be brought out to allow clients to see how they looked in their new shoes. Then he looks back at her, smiling, the expression something close to shy. “I... if you'll let me, I'd like to learn all about what I missed.”

 

He _does_ look like he did back then. Imelda ponders, not for the first time, just how young he'd been when he died; it's not a pleasant train of thought, and she pushes it away with a noncommittal shrug.

 

“Well, it's not something you'll find terribly interesting. Today is a bookkeeping day.”

 

“Hm.” Héctor nods slowly. “Business was never my strong point. It was always--”

 

He breaks off, frowning, but Imelda knows what he'd been about to say.

 

_It was always Ernesto who handled business._

 

Her feelings about Héctor might be uncertain, but even obliquely thinking about _that_ man brings rage bubbling up inside her, remembering what his idea of _business_ had cost her in life and almost cost her in death. Just the memory of Miguel's tears and terror and Héctor's weak, fading form has her trembling with anger and grief; she can't work on her books like this, so instead she snatches up a worn shoe and begins wrenching tacks from leather with ardent ferocity.

 

Her attack on the shoe, accompanied by bitter muttering, has Héctor backing away; he coughs and turns toward the door, speaking up meekly.

 

“Perhaps I'm out of turn. I'll just--”

 

“I'm not angry at _you_ , Héctor.” She looks up at his worried, plaintive face and softens her own expression with an act of supreme will. “Sit down.”

 

He nods again and obeys, pulling the guitar from his back so he can settle into a chair without harming it. It's not _his_ guitar, but the one Miguel had been carrying that night; Imelda isn't sure where it came from, exactly, but it looks quite old and she's gathered that it had belonged to a friend of Héctor's. When asked about it he had only shrugged sadly, and Imelda had let the subject drop.

 

If she had to guess by his reaction, his friend is likely truly gone. It isn't something Imelda wants to dwell on – uncertain or no, she _is_ certain she doesn't want Héctor to fade, and the fact that he almost had isn't something she's willing to touch on just yet.

 

She isn't certain what she wants to say at all just yet, so she goes back to her work as Héctor sits quietly on the other side of the desk, awkward silence stretching between them.

 

Once the tacks are dealt with she turns back to her bookkeeping, and gradually, she realizes the office isn't silent anymore. Héctor is humming under his breath, shooting her furtive glances; she looks back at him the third time, expression carefully neutral, and he pauses a long moment. Imelda looks away, and Héctor seems to take the lack of rebuke as tacit approval: when he starts again, it's noticeably louder, and after a point it can't really be called humming anymore.

 

She doesn't recognize the tune and there are no lyrics to speak of - Héctor is singing in that wordless, rambling fashion he always had when he was trying to pull a new song together, and Imelda lays her hands on her desk to brace against a wave of warm nostalgia.

 

Just for a moment she's seventeen years old and a gangly clown is promising her a song, even his speech rising and falling in lyrical cadences, and she scoffs to hide how charmed she is....

 

" _Stop_ that!" she snaps. It's too much of something she can't decide if she even wants, and she's both relieved and disappointed when he immediately, obediently falls silent, contrite and crestfallen.

 

They're silent for a moment, neither looking at the other; Héctor shifts as if he might get up and leave, and Imelda sighs and waves a hand.

 

"If you must sing, then sing something sensible."

 

Héctor blinks at her, hesitant; she leans back slightly in her chair, crossing her arms, and he gives her a small, nervous smile as he settles back in his seat and picks out a flurry of quick, bright notes on the old guitar.

 

“What color is the sky? ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!”

 

“I said something _sensible_!” Imelda grumbles. Unfortunately Héctor – ever mercurial – has gone from contrite to incorrigible.

 

“You tell me that it's red! ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!”

 

She rolls her eyes and turns away. It doesn't help - Héctor is a fool and an idiot and a clown but he isn't stupid, so it takes him all of two seconds to realize she can still see him in the mirror. He grins and does a horrible ridiculous brow-wiggle at her, and Imelda rolls her eyes again.

 

It is most certainly _not_ endearing.

 

"Where should I put my shoes?" As he sings the line he lifts a foot and wiggles bare bony toes at her too, and Imelda purses her lips grimly.

 

She will _not_ laugh. She will _not_.

 

"¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!"

 

He's still grinning at her in the mirror, the cad, and she takes a sudden deep breath as she turns to him.

 

"You can put them on your head!"

 

Héctor jolts upright when Imelda blurts out the next line; truth be told she'd had no intention of speaking at all, let alone encouraging his nonsense, and they stare at each other a long moment before Imelda turns away with a huff.

 

"Ay mi amor, ay mi amor," she sings after another moment, low as she can manage. She isn't certain whether she intends for Héctor to hear, but a glance at his reflection tells her he most assuredly did: he's staring at her, smiling at her in that marvelously besotted way she remembers so well, and she can't decide who she's more exasperated with.

 

"Well," she says at last, waving a dismissive hand. "You might as well go on."

 

His smile widens, and he nods before diving back into the song with the joyous chortle she _also_ remembers.

 

“You make me un poco loco, un poquititito loco! The way you keep me guessing, I'm nodding and I'm yessing!”

 

Imelda is tapping a foot in spite of herself, watching him in the mirror despite all her intentions of going back to work, and she's entirely incapable of resisting joining him on the last line.

 

“I'll count it as a blessing... that I'm only un poco loco!”

 

Their voices ring together just like old times, filling the room and Imelda's heart, and she turns to face Héctor almost shyly. He's leaning forward just a bit, giving her the same dazzled look he had on the stage at the Sunrise Spectacular, and she clears her throat and drops her gaze.

 

“My voice... it's out of practice.”

 

“It isn't,” Héctor says softly. Imelda shakes her head, looking away.

 

“It had been... a very long time, Héctor.” She takes a slow, shaky breath. “For a very long time, I couldn't stand it.”

 

There's a long silence, filled only by Héctor playing a slow string of melancholy notes.

 

"You know," he says, "I, ah... stopped too. For a very long time. I didn't want to, I didn't have a reason anymore. Until...."

 

"Miguel." Imelda's voice grows soft and warm at the mention of their great-great-grandson; Héctor smiles, nodding slowly.

 

"Sí." His voice and expression are distant and fond as he plucks at the guitar, absentmindedly falling into the wandering tune-composing mode he'd been in moments ago; Imelda watches him a moment before nodding meaningfully toward the instrument.

 

"And how long since you wrote something?"

 

The guitar playing stops on a jangled chord - he must think he's annoying her after the scolding she'd given before, however brief.

 

"Even longer," he says slowly. "I... didn't really have any... any drive, any inspiration."

 

"Isn't that what you left to find? Inspiration?" Her tone is frostier than she intends. Héctor flinches; somehow the guilt rippling through his expression and posture isn't as satisfying as it might have been not so long ago, instead bringing on the slightest sting of guilt in Imelda.

 

"Yes," he says at last. "But instead I left it behind."

 

The wistfulness in his voice tugs at something wistful in her, and once again she speaks without fully intending to.

 

"Well... if it's been so long then I suppose you'd better get back to work, don't you think?"

 

He gives her a startled look that swiftly melts into beaming delight, and this time she doesn't bother trying to hide her smile when their eyes meet. Héctor plucks experimentally at the guitar; Imelda turns to sorting through the scrap leather in her desk, listening more closely than she's willing to let on.

 

And as the tune starts to come together, she catches herself humming along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Imelda _absolutely_ looked every bit as soppy as Héctor did.


	4. Consejo Fraternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felipe and Óscar decide to give things a little nudge.

**_Entonces_ **

 

“Good morning, Óscar!” Héctor beamed at Imelda’s brother when Óscar answered his knock, and Óscar grinned back just as cheerfully. “Is Imelda home?”

 

“Hello, Héctor. No, she’s gone on some errands - she’ll be back later this afternoon.” Óscar stepped back, gesturing for Héctor to enter. “But come in anyway!”

 

“Have a seat,” Felipe added from deeper in the house. “ _We_ like having you visit too, you know?”

 

“Ahh, tell the truth,” Héctor said comfortably as he followed Óscar inside, “you only like me because I can tell you apart.”

 

“There are other reasons,” Óscar said as they sat, striving for an injured tone and missing the mark only slightly.

 

“Yes, like actually calling us by our names,” Felipe added.

 

“There’s one fellow who just calls us both ‘Felipe’,” Óscar mused. “I’m not sure he actually understands that there are two of us.”

 

“Oh come on, that’s mean.” Héctor couldn’t quite keep laughter out of the admonishment. “There’s no way he’s never seen you together!”

 

“Yes, but he’s not a smart man.”

 

Héctor snorted, shaking his head.

 

“Now you have to tell me who it is.”

 

“I don’t know,” Felipe said blandly. “I can’t remember his name.”

 

“Our point is,” Óscar said once they’d all more or less stopped laughing, “you actually making the effort is a good portion of why we like you.”

 

“Of course,” Felipe said, “we do think you can be a bit of… well….”

 

He raised a hand, wiggling it slightly; Héctor sighed, giving him a slight smile.

 

“A flake?”

 

“A nice way to put it,” Óscar agreed. “It’s not a terrible trait, but it does leave us wondering exactly what you intend to do in the long run.”

 

“As far as Imelda’s concerned,” Felipe clarified.

 

“Imelda?” Héctor echoed. Wasn’t that obvious? “Well, I’m going to marry her, of course.”

 

It wasn’t something he’d given much thought to - it was always something safely in the future, but… wasn’t it the natural course of things?

 

He shifted his weight, conscious of the way the twins were looking at him as if waiting for further information, and laughed weakly at the sudden ridiculous thought of them waiting for this opportunity to catch him alone.

 

“Er. Pending her… opinion on the matter. Naturally.”

 

Felipe and Óscar were silent, looking at each other a long moment; Héctor watched, a bit apprehensive, as they both smiled and then turned to look keenly at him.

 

“Is that so?” Óscar asked. “Are we to take that as a request for permission, then?”

 

Héctor mulled that over, humming under his breath.

 

“If you mean in the sense of making a gesture for the sake of tradition… then yes. If you mean actually implying either of you have as much say as she does….” He grinned at them, spreading his hands. “Well, one of you can tell her that. Not me!”

 

Felipe laughed, lightly swatting Héctor’s shoulder as he addressed his brother.

 

“I told you he was smart!”

 

“Surprising sense of self-preservation for someone courting Imelda,” Óscar agreed.

 

“Ay.” Héctor reached up to flick the rim of Óscar’s glasses. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”

 

“You won’t.” Óscar swatted him away, grinning. “You’re not going to give her any reason to be annoyed until you make your move.”

 

“You’re not thinking of the future, Óscar. I’ll have plenty of opportunities to tell her after tonight.”

 

Óscar leaned back a bit, brows raising as he looked over at Felipe.

 

“Tonight, he says.”

 

Tonight. _Why_ had he said tonight?

 

“I think we can find it in our hearts to leave them undisturbed for an evening,” Felipe said.

 

They were both looking at him with those keen, interested eyes again. Héctor gulped.

 

“D-did I say… ay, you know, I don’t have anything _planned_ , I--”

 

“Who needs big plans?” Felipe asked. “I’m sure you know putting her on the spot is a terrible approach, don’t you?”

 

“Well… yes! Obviously! But--”

 

“You know yourself and you know Imelda,” Óscar said, voice rising just enough to be heard over Héctor.

 

“So if you’ve really thought about it,” Felipe added, “then you already know how you want to approach it. Don’t you?”

 

“I….” Héctor trailed off, thoughtful. Come to think of it - there _was_ something. “Yes. Yes, I… _do_ have something in mind.”

 

“As I thought.” Felipe nodded, satisfied, and beside him his brother mirrored the motion.

 

“You were right about not needing our permission, Héctor,” Óscar said warmly. “But you do have our blessing.” He reached out to clap Héctor lightly on the shoulder, and Felipe reached out to do the same on the opposite side.

 

“Good luck, amigo.”

 

Héctor grinned at that, laying a hand on each twin’s shoulder.

 

“Thank you. Really. And....”

 

He looked at them both, summoning up all the confidence he had.

 

“As far as ‘amigo’... you’ll be calling me ‘hermano’ instead soon enough!”

 

They both chuckled, nodding, and Felipe clapped his shoulder again.

 

“I hope so! Now go do what you need to, and hurry back before we change our minds about staying out of the way.”

 

“And do come for a longer visit next time!” Óscar added, just as if the two of them hadn’t ambushed Héctor at the very first opening. “I enjoy our chats, you know?”

 

Héctor couldn’t help chuckling as he left. This had definitely been a trap - but then, it was also exactly what he’d needed to get moving beyond the past few months of stolen kisses under the constant threat of the twins’ too-cheerful interference.

 

He’d have to thank them, somehow - but first, he had a little work to do.

 

It was nearing sunset when Héctor approached Imelda’s home again; the perfect approach had occurred to him almost immediately after the twins suggested he _did_ have something, and while it had taken him most of the afternoon to work it out he was as ready as he’d ever be. The courtyard gate was already shut, but no matter: Imelda, or her brothers, would happily let him in.

 

Even so, he paused with his hand on the bell rope, considering.

 

No. If he was going to make a gesture, then he was going to go all the way. Show up unexpectedly, without the filter of the gate (or worse, the twins), and make his case.

 

Héctor looked around a moment, gaze settling on a tree by the wall.

 

 _Perfect_.

 

Climbing with the guitar on his back wasn’t an easy task, really, but it would all be worth it - he could manage, and soon enough he was perched on the wall, looking over the house for some sign of Imelda.

 

There: he could see her silhouette in a window, softly haloed as she lit lamps for the evening and easily accessible from the courtyard.

 

Which left only the problem of getting down.

 

He studied the ground below. Not too far a drop, he concluded - he could easily slide down, and he pulled his guitar from his back to cradle it more safely in his arms, scooted closer to the edge….

 

And almost immediately slipped, air whooshing from his lungs and head cracking against the courtyard stones as he landed hard on his back. The guitar, at least, he managed to hold above himself to avoid damaging it; he just needed to wait for the stars to clear from his vision to proceed. With any luck no one saw--

 

“Héctor?”

 

Of course. Why should his luck turn now?

 

He slowly looked up, peering at the window from his position on the stones; Imelda was leaning out, wide-eyed as she stared down at him.

 

“I’m all right,” he managed after a moment. Imelda’s brow furrowed and he rolled awkwardly to his feet.

 

“Héctor, what in the name of--”

 

She fell silent as he strummed the guitar. He’d banged one elbow as well as his head, but the tingling pain down his arm from _that_ was fading; he could still play, and with any luck she hadn’t actually seen him fall.

 

This was salvageable. He could see Imelda’s face soften as she recognized the tune - the one from his first attempt at writing, the first written in the songbook she’d given him, the one they’d sang together but that had gone so long without lyrics - and he could see how she tightened her hands on the windowsill in surprise when he started singing.

 

This was going to work. His nerve just had to hold, for the song and for the conversation that would follow.

 

“A feeling so close, you could reach out and touch it… I never knew I could want something so much. but it's true….”

 

Imelda was very, very still as he sang, depthless eyes fixed on Héctor’s, and even once he’d finished she held that motionless pose for several seconds. He steeled himself, smiling up at her, and stepped closer to the window.

 

“Imelda….”

 

“Wait there.” Her voice was soft but carrying; once Héctor nodded she vanished from the window, and he turned toward her as the door opened and she stepped out into the courtyard.

 

“You finished it,” Imelda said quietly, eyes wide and velvet-soft. Héctor nodded again, smiling through a wave of bashfulness.

 

“And you’re the first to know. Just like I promised.” He took a deep breath and moved toward her. “Imelda, I--”

 

“Turn around.”

 

Héctor blinked, freezing in midstep. Imelda’s expression had shifted - still soft but with a definite tinge of exasperation.

 

“What? I--”

 

“I _saw_ you hit your head, Héctor. Let me look.”

 

He blinked again, reaching up to touch the back of his head. Imelda stopped him with a sharp, throaty sound of warning and he dropped his hand and obediently turned, crouching when she tugged impatiently at the back of his shirt.

 

“Ugh, you’re _bleeding_! Wait here.”

 

He listened to her hurrying footsteps as she went back to the house, heart sinking as he settled into a seated position on the stones. This was _not_ going how he wanted.

 

How was he going to salvage this now? It would have to be another time, obviously - a time when he _didn’t_ crack his head open trying to be impressive - but what was he to tell her in the meantime?

 

She was coming back, steps clicking on stone; a moment later he felt her warm presence at his back before cool, damp cloth dabbed gently at his head, her free hand moving his hair aside with delicate care even as she muttered irritably.

 

“Of all the fool things! Climbing the wall! Héctor, what were you _thinking_?”

 

He winced - not entirely at the sting of the cloth, though she immediately softened her touch - and sighed, feeling very small and very, very stupid.

 

“I… wanted to do something… you know… _memorable_.”

 

Imelda made a low grumbling sound; he could sense her leaning a bit closer to more carefully examine his head.

 

“Héctor, you are nothing if not memorable. Why do something so ridiculous now?”

 

“You thought it was ridiculous?” he asked plaintively. Imelda prodded him between the shoulder blades, silently demanding an answer; she deserved and would accept nothing more than the truth, so he sighed again and told her.

 

“I was going to ask you to marry me tonight.”

 

Her hands stilled in his hair, and after a moment she leaned lightly against his back.

 

“You complete idiot.” Despite the words her voice had lost its irritation, coming low and warm. “Of _course_ I’m going to marry you. You didn’t need to bash your silly brains out for it.”

 

Héctor straightened, drawing breath in a faint gasp. Not a complete disaster after all! Not exactly what he’d imagined, no, but did that matter so much as her response? He started to turn to her, stopping only at her firm hand on his shoulder.

 

“Be still. I’m not finished.”

 

He hissed through his teeth when she touched the cloth to the gash on the back of his head again; Imelda murmured an apology, fingers stroking soothingly down the back of his neck, and after a moment she set the cloth aside and laid both hands on his back.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“Me? Amazing. How do _you_ feel?” He laughed, unable to contain the giddy joy welling up as he arched into her touch, and Imelda’s own sweet laughter echoed his tone as she spoke.

 

“I meant your _head_!”

 

“Ahh, it aches.” He turned to give her a smile over his shoulder. “But I think I have enough reason to live through it.”

 

“So - you can play it again, now that I’m not distracted worrying if you’ve concussed yourself?”

 

“Anything for you, mi amor.”

 

She nodded, gesturing for him to go on, and he turned back to the guitar. Imelda slowly leaned into his back as he played, cheek nestled against his shoulder and arms sliding around his chest, and he leaned lightly back against her as he finished, only turning to pull her against his side instead after the last echoes faded. She tucked herself comfortably against him, companionable silence settling them over as the sun sank below the horizon.

 

Something caught Héctor’s eye as the light began to fade proper, and he gave Imelda a light squeeze.

 

“Imelda, look.”

 

“Mm?” She looked up at him, the last golden rays of sunset reflected in her fathomless dark eyes, and Héctor gestured toward scarlet-tinged clouds.

 

“The sky is red.”

 

Her eyes went wide, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing as she stared at him disbelief.

 

Then she punched him in the ribs - not enough to hurt, really, but no delicate tap either - and he _did_ laugh, and she was laughing even as she hit him again, and he pulled her closer still to kiss her as full dark settled over them.

 

* * *

 

**_Ahora_ **

 

Héctor has come to the shop every day for nearly two weeks. Imelda has not decided how she feels about this - about his frequent presence after so long, about how neatly he fits into household goings-on, about how much she’s enjoying it all.

 

He's leaving now – having just finished showing her a bit more of the new songs he's been composing – and Imelda makes sure to give him ample time to depart before venturing out of her office. Perfect timing – she can hear the door jingle, signaling that he'll be gone by the time she reaches the front, and allows herself a soft sigh as she heads up.

 

She hears him call a farewell to someone as he goes, but deep in thought as she is she takes no real notice of the two figures seated in the front of the shop until one of them actually speaks up.

 

“Hello Imelda. Did you have a nice visit?”

 

She startles badly at Óscar's voice, but recovers quickly; her features have already settled into a glare as she turns to face her brothers. Side by side as usual, the twins are watching her with unmistakable amusement.

 

Imelda doesn't grind her teeth at their looks, but it's a close thing.

 

“That man is a plague,” she grouses. “It will be much simpler when he finally gets bored of this.”

 

Empty words, and indeed neither of them look convinced; instead they sigh, almost in sync, and Felipe gestures to a chair in front of them.

 

“Have a seat, won't you?”

 

She almost refuses out of pure contrariness, but something in their expressions stops her. So she settles obligingly into the chair, ankles crossed primly, and does her best to stare them down.

 

“Well? What is it?”

 

They glance at each other for just a moment before Óscar answers.

 

“Imelda, be honest. Do you really think he's just going to get bored and leave?”

 

“More to the point,” Felipe adds, “do you _want_ him to?”

 

Imelda sits up straighter, voice rising.

 

“I....”

 

She can't answer. Felipe and Óscar exchange another, knowing glance, and she takes a deep breath and then exhales sharply through her nose before speaking again. “He left when we were young—”

 

“That was a different thing and you know it,” Óscar says, voice far softer than Imelda's but still enough to stop her in her tracks. She glowers at him for the interruption and he blinks mildly back as she continues.

 

“W-well, perhaps it was, but it's been _decades_ since he last spoke to me and--”

 

“Because you told him not to come back and he did as you asked,” Felipe says patiently. “So you know he'll stop coming if you want him to – do you?”

 

She doesn't.

 

It's the first time she's really admitted it to herself: Imelda wants Héctor to stay, and it's only her own stubborn pride saying otherwise. She laces her fingers in her lap, unable to answer her brothers, and silence settles for a long moment before anyone breaks it.

 

“Héctor was wrong to leave when you asked him not to,” Óscar says. “But he knows that. It was his fault he left, but not his fault he never came back.”

 

“You don't have to forgive him,” Felipe says slowly. “And if you really want him to go, then no one will tell you you shouldn't. But Imelda – we've all seen how you are with him when you forget to be angry.”

 

“Imelda,” Óscar says gently, “We've all heard you singing, lately.”

 

Imelda sits back in her chair, eyeing her brothers sourly; they only gaze placidly back at her, and after a moment it's too much trouble to maintain the facade. She sighs, letting her shoulders drop, and looks away.

 

“What do you think I should do?”

 

Felipe and Óscar exchange a long look, communicating as they always have with a slight furrow of brow or lift of shoulder or frown or half-smile. Then they turn back to Imelda, folding their hands in their laps.

 

“I think,” Felipe says, “that you should decide how honest you're being. Never mind us or Héctor – worry about being honest with yourself.”

 

“I think,” Óscar says, “that you should carefully consider whether you're really all that determined to hold on to what happened, and why you at least pretend to be.”

 

“Mm,” Imelda says, gazing down at her own neatly folded hands. After a moment she raises her eyes again, giving them her driest look. “Anything else to add?”

 

They look at each other again; it's brief, and they shrug in unison as Felipe speaks up.

 

“I like Héctor.”

 

“He was the only suitor of yours I liked,” Óscar adds. Imelda blinks at him, astonished.

 

“What? You were always so polite...!”

 

“Yes, and what would you have had to say if we chased them off before you had a crack at them?” Felipe asks, as dry as Imelda ever is, and she barks out a short laugh.

 

“All right – you have a point.” She lifts her chin and shakes a finger at them emphatically. “About _that_. I make no promises about the rest!”

 

“That's fair,” Óscar says.

 

“Just think about it, won't you?” Felipe adds.

 

“I will, and I am.” Imelda smiles, getting to her feet. “Thank you.”

 

She doesn't quite hear their gentle responses as she steps out. Imelda is not, she tells herself, _looking_ for Héctor; a walk will clear her head, that's all, and the music drifting from a plaza below is already soothing her disordered thoughts.

 

The assertion that she is _not_ looking for him doesn't stop her from automatically moving toward Héctor's voice when she hears it carrying over the music and street chatter.

 

“Just a bit more flair in the turn there.” His voice is lightly cajoling, following the rhythm of the music – falling into easy cadence as it always does – and Imelda focuses on it more sharply. “Loosen up! Don't be afraid, I won't let you fall.”

 

“I'm not.” Imelda slows as she recognizes Victoria's voice, her granddaughter's tone unconsciously echoing the music as much as Héctor's did. “And I know you won't.”

 

“Good! Come on now, turn your head like this and you won't get dizzy....”

 

Imelda peeks around the corner so she can see them, watching as Héctor teases and coaxes and carefully leads Victoria through spins and turns and performs slower, simpler versions of the flamboyant footwork Imelda remembers so Victoria can imitate it.

 

In short, Héctor is teaching their granddaughter to dance.

 

 _And about time_ , a not-so-small part of her says. Another thing stolen from her family and finally set right, and her anger over that theft can’t compare to the charm of Héctor’s gently enthusiastic instruction.

 

“How was that?” Victoria asks after a series of swooping spins; her voice is unhurried and serious as always, but there's a note in it that Imelda recognizes as pleasure and Victoria is smiling as Héctor replies.

 

“Perfect! You're a natural!” He steps back, grinning broadly. “And how do you feel? Are you having fun?”

 

Victoria doesn't reply for a long moment. But she's absently swaying to the music, and at last she nods once.

 

“Yes.” It comes out like a confession, almost furtive, and Victoria steps back a bit. “But... I should return to the shop.”

 

Héctor hides his disappointment well; Imelda is certain Victoria doesn't even notice it.

 

“All right then,” he says, a bit too brightly. “I'll see you later?”

 

“Yes – I'd like to learn more. So I'll look for you later...” Victoria pauses, considering. “...Abuelito.”

 

She bestows the title like a gift; Héctor _glows_ , disappointment forgotten, and neither Imelda nor Victoria can quite suppress a smile at his obvious joy.

 

“I'll look forward to it!”

 

Imelda steps back out of sight, waiting as Victoria hurries back up the street; when her granddaughter rounds the corner and nearly crashes into Imelda she staggers to a stop with a half-muffled shriek, sounding for all the world like a girl a quarter her age caught sneaking out.

 

Still. Victoria is Imelda Rivera's grandchild, and she recovers her dignity with admirable aplomb.

 

“It was my idea,” she says, looking squarely at Imelda, “so you really can't blame him.”

 

Well. _That_ brings back memories. Imelda raises her brows, staring at Victoria a moment; Victoria doesn't recant, and Imelda sighs and nods.

 

“I'm not here to shout at him anyway. Go on.”

 

Victoria nods once and hurries off, and Imelda makes her way over to that daffy clown of a musician. Héctor has his back to her, leaning over a railing to watch the musicians below and tapping a foot to the rhythm. Imelda half thinks he might actually leap down to join them, so she clears her throat for attention before he can do it.

 

"Giving lessons now, Héctor?"

  
  
He lets out nearly the same shriek Victoria had and doesn't recover himself nearly so quickly: when he spins around to face her there's a touch too much momentum in it, and he barely avoids overbalancing. Imelda resists the urge to reach out and steady him, instead folding her arms to watch him flail.

  
  
He's always been the most perplexing mix of dancing grace and bumbling clumsiness. It's nostalgic, really.

  
  
"I offered," he says once he steadies himself, standing at his full height with hands clasped innocently behind him. "It would have been rude of her to refuse. And Victoria? She is most certainly not rude! Very well brought up, Victoria is."

  
  
Imelda nearly laughs. Nearly.

 

  
"You and Coco," she says slowly, "always tried to cover for each other too."

  
  
Héctor grins wistfully at that, shrugging.

  
  
"And we never ratted each other out."

  
  
"Never," Imelda agrees. Yet again she can't hide her softness, her smile, and she and Héctor gaze at each other a long moment before he coughs gently and turns.

  
  
"Well, I... should be getting, ah, back. After all I've been pestering you all day, so...."

  
  
"You have." She nods, and he gives her a small, sad smile before heading off down the street. Imelda draws a sharp breath at the sight of his retreating back, hands fisting in the thick fabric of her skirts, and takes a step after him.

  
  
"Wait. Please."

  
  
He stops, glancing back toward her but not quite turning. Still, she can see the hope in the set of his shoulders, the line of his back, and she takes another deep breath.

  
  
She wants to tell him to stay, that she doesn't want to watch him walk away again, that even she doesn't understand her own stubborn clinging to old hurt and anger.

  
  
That she's sorry, sorry for doubting him and for the terrible consequence it nearly wrought, as sorry as he ever was for leaving.

  
  
Instead, she says: "No Rivera is going to wander around shoeless like a vagabond. Come back to the shop and let me do something about it."

  
  
He turns to her, looking at her as if he can’t quite believe she means it; Imelda waits, still tightly gripping her skirts.

 

And then Héctor relaxes, giving her that bright, slightly lopsided grin of his as he comes to her side, and she can't help smiling back.

  
  
“Of course, Imelda – I'd be honored!”

  
  
As they walk back up the street he offers her his arm, hopeful and hesitant; Imelda looks up at him, still flooded with all she wants to say, and after only a moment of consideration she accepts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!
> 
> Good brothers, good wingmen.


	5. Opción

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A choice is made.

**_Entonces_ **

 

“You’re _leaving_?”

 

Imelda stared at Héctor in disbelief, watching as his expression shifted from cheerful to bewildered at her reaction.

 

“Well… not _permanently_ , mi amor, but--”

 

“But _nothing_! You can’t just… drop this on me out of the blue and--”

 

“Out of the blue?” Héctor repeated quietly. “This isn’t… Imelda, you _know_ that’s not true. How often have you heard us talk about this?”

 

“I…” Imelda scowled and looked away. True, this had been a frequent topic between Héctor and Ernesto, but she hadn’t heard either of them bring it up in some time; somehow, she’d thought that Coco’s birth and Imelda and Héctor’s settling into a comfortable family routine had put it firmly in the past. “But… why? Why now?”

 

“Well… the timing is good now, don’t you think?” He stepped closer, reaching to take her hand; she hesitated, but let him. “After all. Coco’s four now, things are a little less crazy around here. It’s a quiet month here in town overall - a good time to get moving. And just think!” Héctor spread his other arm expansively. “Once I’m back, once I get a little experience, a little inspiration? I can do that much better for you!”

 

She gave his hand a squeeze, shaking her head slightly.

 

“Can’t you do all that just as well _here_? Where you belong?”

 

“I think….” Héctor was quiet a moment, thoughtful. “I think… maybe if I see more, I can do better… give you and Coco everything you deserve, and--”

 

“Coco deserves to have you _here_. And don’t you think I do too?”

 

“I… well, yes, of course, but….” He trailed off, indecisive. They could hear Coco playing in the courtyard; Imelda realized he’d focussed on that and held her breath, hopeful, and then scowled again as he squared his shoulders. “But I need to do this. Just for a little while, Imelda.”

 

She pulled her hand out of his grip, eyes narrowed.

 

“You don’t. And I think you need to realize that.”

 

Héctor gave her a long, somber look.

 

“Are you sure it’s me who needs to realize?”

 

He walked out, heading into the courtyard to join their daughter, and Imelda sank into a chair to rest her forehead in her hands.

 

The same conversation played out a dozen times over the next two weeks - Imelda pleading and arguing, Héctor always on the verge of relenting before steeling himself and telling her he _had_ to do this, that this would make their lives better, that she _knew_ this was part of his plan from the start.

 

She hated that she couldn’t effectively argue that last point, but the other two she fought daily and the household descended into an unease that only Coco seemed unaffected by as she sang and danced with Héctor and made inept but earnest attempts to help around the house. Even Felipe and Óscar, usually quick to intervene when they thought their sister and her husband were being ridiculous, stopped offering any remark whatsoever after Imelda shouted them both down after a particularly tense discussion, her rage at their meddling enough to rattle dishes.

 

(It hadn’t been fair, she realized; they were only trying to help as they always did, and she promised herself she’d apologize as soon as this was resolved.)

 

“Imelda, you’re only trying to keep him all to yourself! That isn’t fair,” Ernesto said at one point, something like Héctor’s gentle coaxing in his tone but oddly performative by comparison and more than enough to spark her temper.

 

“Isn’t that exactly what _you’re_ doing?” she’d hissed. “Dragging him from his own life for something _you_ never grew out of?”

 

Ernesto had glared at her with an intensity she hadn't known he had in him, silence stretching for several long seconds before he spoke again.

 

“Our plans existed well before you ever met Héctor. You know that perfectly well. We were playing together before you ever sat down to sing with him.”

 

He’d turned and stomped away, leaving Imelda bewildered over the drastic shift in mood and the nigh-possessive tone. But he’d been right; she’d heard it from Héctor and Ernesto both.

 

Was it really fair to expect him to change his mind?

 

“Do you think I’m being selfish?” she asked Héctor the night before he was to leave. He looked over at her, blinking as he set the white guitar she’d given him as a wedding gift aside and crossed the room to rest his hands on her shoulders.

 

“Of course I don’t, Imelda.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “But I do think you’re worrying too much. It isn’t as if I’m vanishing into the wilderness of big-city debauchery.”

 

He drew back, smiling slightly; Imelda couldn’t quite smile back, and he sighed softly. “I’m not like Ernesto, you know? He’ll probably never set foot here again, this is all he’s ever wanted.”

 

“And what about you?” she asked wearily. “Didn’t you?”

 

“Eh, that was a kid’s dream with me.” He shrugged. “I won’t lie, Imelda, performing gives me _life_. But not as much as you, and Coco.” He pulled her close, whispering into her hair. “ _T_ _his_ is all I want.”

 

“Then why is that the choice you’re making?”

 

“It’s not. Imelda, please.” He pulled back again, gazing down at her. “I promise this isn’t going to be a permanent thing, or even a long thing. I’ll help Ernesto out a bit, see him off. I’ll learn a few new things myself, have a bit of a name I can support you with. And I’ll be _back_.”

 

She was quiet a moment, avoiding his gaze.

 

“How long?”

 

“One year.” He said it immediately, decisively. “One year, and I’ll be back in time for Coco’s birthday.”

 

“One year,” she echoed. “Héctor… I… don’t think this is the right choice. But I don’t want to part angry if you’re going to insist.”

 

He rested his forehead against hers again, nodding slightly against her.

 

“I don’t either. Thank you, Imelda. It’ll be all right - one year, but then think of how many we’ll have after. Won’t you?”

 

She made a non-committal sound, hands tightening in the back of his shirt, and dreaded the coming day.

 

The next afternoon Ernesto was standing in their house, luggage at his side as he and Imelda studiously avoided looking at each other and Héctor talked quietly with Felipe and Óscar in the next room; he bounced out a moment later, calling over his shoulder.

 

“I’ll see you soon enough, mis hermanos!” Héctor smiled at Imelda as he approached; from the corner of her eye she saw Ernesto shift slightly at Héctor’s words but thought nothing of it, instead giving Héctor a level, questioning look.

 

“You’re going, then?”

 

“Not before I say goodbye to Coco.” He kissed her forehead in passing, then picked up the white guitar and hurried deeper into the house.

 

A moment later, she heard him singing - the same song he played for Coco every night, and before any trip that might take him out of town for more than a few hours. On the occasions he was out of the house at her bedtime, Coco always sang it herself, insisting that wherever he was Héctor was singing it too.

 

A glance at Ernesto told her he was listening as well, something contemplative in his gaze as he looked toward Coco’s room. She hadn’t spoken to him since their last exchange and had never been able to decide what to make of him even before that; like Héctor he exuded charm, but in contrast to her husband’s sometimes-awkward, lively appeal Ernesto had an assured boisterous showmanship she couldn’t seem to read.

 

She also couldn’t shake the memory of his oddly possessive tone, his sudden intense anger.

 

Still. He was Héctor’s oldest friend, someone Héctor knew as well as he knew her, someone who had been by her husband’s side his entire life - and if Héctor loved him, that counted for quite a lot, didn’t it? Héctor knew him, and it was something she had to trust. So she sighed, stepping close and laying a hand on his broad shoulder; Ernesto stared down at her, tense, and she summoned up a smile.

 

“Take care of him, Ernesto. I’ll entrust that to you. All right?”

 

Imelda kept her voice soft, a peace offering; he shifted back, looking almost startled at her request - but then he smiled, taking her hand in his and bowing slightly.

 

“Of course, Imelda! You don’t even need to ask!”

 

“See that you do. I’ll be waiting.” She turned as Héctor came back in, Coco cradled in one arm as he set the guitar aside and came to Imelda, raising his freed hand to cradle her cheek. He brushed a gentle thumb over her cheekbone; Imelda couldn’t quite meet his gaze, but she did lay her fingers over his wrist for a moment before pulling back.

 

“One year, Héctor.”

 

“One year,” he agreed, both smile and sadness evident in his voice. He stepped back and passed Coco to her; Coco took hold of his sleeve, tugging, and Imelda saw him falter, shoulders slumping as he reached to gently untangle her, clasping her tiny hand in his long fingers.

 

“Papá--”

 

“Héctor, hurry up!”

 

Héctor jumped at Ernesto’s admonition - not quite loud or sharp, but sudden and shot through with impatience. Imelda scowled, lifting her chin to stare at her husband’s friend; Ernesto only smiled in return, but he did modify his tone to something more jovial before speaking to Héctor again.

 

“We need to be going, my friend. It won’t be so long.” He looked at Imelda again, smile widening. “And I already told you I’d take care of him, didn’t I?”

 

Héctor chuckled weakly at that.

 

“We’ll see who ends up taking care of who. Go on, I’ll be right there.”

 

“Make it quick, then!”

 

Ernesto stepped out; Héctor smiled, shaking his head as he leaned down to kiss Coco’s forehead.

 

“I need you to reconsider, Héctor. I need you to _stay_ ,” Imelda said, softly so that it didn’t carry to Ernesto. Héctor hesitated, still holding their daughter’s hand in his, and sighed.

 

“I can’t,” he said at last. “But he’s right - it won’t be so long, and I’ll be able to do everything I wanted, for all three of us. So be patient with me, just a little bit?”

 

Imelda took a long, shaky breath and nodded, giving agreement she didn’t feel, and he let go of Coco’s hand at last as he kissed Imelda softly and then walked out.

 

She followed him to the door, watching him hurry to Ernesto’s side; he glanced back once, his expression obscured by the sun’s strong backlight, and then he walked away.

  


**_Ahora_ **

 

“There - how does that feel?”

 

Héctor gets to his feet, bouncing lightly in the shoes Imelda has spent the last week making - perfectly fitted, sturdy craftsmanship evident in every stitch and seam, so comfortable they’re already smoothing out aches he’d stopped acknowledging long ago - and smiles.

 

“Amazing, Imelda.” He gives one more bounce and then rocks on his feet, rolling from heel to toe. “They’re perfect - you’re outstanding, you know that?”

 

“Hm.” She folds her arms and tilts her head; it’s a distinctly unimpressed look, but Héctor knows her well enough to catch the pleasure in the way she sets her shoulders and raises a brow. “There’s no value in a job half-done, after all. I set out to learn a trade _right_.”

 

“Of course! Never halfway.” He smiles, watching her to more fully gauge her mood before venturing further. “Maybe you’d show me sometime? How it’s done?” Imelda raises both brows at this, and Héctor falters and fidgets with one suspender. “After all, I spend… quite a lot of time here as it is, so I was thinking….”

 

He trails off, still watching her. To his relief she’s not even making a pretense of being annoyed, instead giving him that slight smile that’s always signaled she’s taking his words to heart.

 

“Perhaps.” She pauses a moment. “But for now… one other thing.” Imelda steps back to the desk, retrieving something from amongst her ledgers - a small, rich purple book with gold designs traced on the cover. “To be honest - the shoes were finished days ago, but I was waiting for this to be finished too.”

 

She holds the book out to him, holding his gaze a long moment before speaking again.

 

“If you’re going to be writing songs again… you’re going to need somewhere to write them all down.”

 

Héctor takes a long moment to study the notebook, tracing the marigold designs on the cover and rubbing a thumb over the soft, clean texture of the paper. Then he looks back at Imelda and smiles, holding the little book against his chest.

 

“Thank you, Imelda - it’s the second most beautiful thing I’ve seen here.”

 

He winks as he speaks, and Imelda gives him a long, silent look. Héctor expects her to scoff at his flirting, perhaps an acerbic remark in return before they move the conversation along - a bit awkward perhaps, but a vast improvement over the last decades, and friendly enough in its way.

 

Instead she looks thoughtful, even sad. Héctor blinks at her and then takes a hesitant step forward, voice softening.

 

“Imelda?”

 

She holds up a hand; Héctor goes still, patient as she sorts through her thoughts.

 

“I haven’t been fair to you,” she says at last. Héctor frowns and fidgets, fingers drumming lightly against the little notebook.

 

“I… I really don’t think--”

 

“Héctor, please.” Imelda holds her hand up again, shaking her head once. “Let me speak. No chattering for once.”

 

Her expression is somber, but there’s fondness in her voice at the request. Héctor nods slowly, and Imelda sighs and folds her hands at her waist before continuing.

 

“I… misjudged you, Héctor. And I feel I should have realized, back then, that something had gone terribly wrong… and even more when we met again here.” She looks up, studying him; Héctor shifts his weight but holds his silence, waiting. “You’re… you were _so_ young. But I wouldn’t let myself consider it when we… when _I_ was alive, and I didn’t, _couldn’t_ let myself see it after. I was too angry to listen - to let you even get a word in to explain! - and too proud to put that aside, and….”

 

She trails off, looking away; Héctor waits a moment more, and when Imelda gives no sign of continuing he speaks up softly.

 

“Imelda….”

 

She makes no move to silence him this time, so he steps close and raises a hand to hover alongside her face just shy of touching; she leans into it, her jaw nestled against his palm, and he runs his thumb over her cheekbone, marveling at the delicate texture of the markings etched there.

 

“Imelda, I’ve never blamed you for being angry. So you didn’t listen - so what? I didn’t listen back then. I was stupid, and I… chose badly, and then I couldn’t even….” He pauses, taking a long slow breath, and then he brings his other hand up to cradle her face between them, thumbs still tracing over the markings on her cheekbones. “And… we’re listening now, aren’t we?”

 

“Mm.” She doesn’t pull away from his touch, instead half-closing her eyes, and after a moment she moves closer. “Yes. It was… a long time coming. But yes.”

 

“I don’t think there’s any need to fret over passed time,” Héctor says gently. “After all - we have time _now_.”

 

“So we do.” Imelda smiles again at last, moving closer still to embrace him. “You know, Héctor. I’m as bad as Coco - no matter how I tried, I never did forget how much I love you.”

 

“We’re the same, then,” Héctor replies, “and is that really so bad?”

 

“I suppose not.” Imelda is still smiling, soft-voiced and soft-eyed as she brings one hand up to rest along his cheek, and he leans forward to tentatively rest his forehead against hers.

 

“Imelda… I--”

 

The office door clicks open; Héctor jumps and feels Imelda do the same before they both turn to see one of her brothers stepping in, peering at a stack of paperwork in his hands.

 

“Imelda, if you have a moment I need to retrieve and go over a few things - shouldn’t be but a minute.”

 

“Hello, Felipe,” Héctor says flatly. Imelda snorts softly at his tone; her brother takes no apparent notice, focused on the papers he’s shuffling through.

 

“Hello, Héctor. Imelda, I need the measurements on--” Felipe looks up and stops short, blinking at them over his glasses. “...oh. Oh my.”

 

“Felipe.” Imelda’s voice is nearly the epitome of patience, containing just the slightest edge. “Can this... by any chance... _wait_?”

 

“Wait?” Felipe echoes blankly, still blinking at them as if trying to confirm what he’s seeing. “Oh… _oh_!” He backs away, clearing his throat awkwardly, and stares at them a moment longer. “Er, yes. Certainly.” Amusement creeps into his voice, and Héctor can see him struggling not to smile as he steps out. “Terribly sorry, I’ll, ah… goodbye.”

 

The office door clicks firmly behind Felipe as he hurries out, footsteps thudding down the hall. Héctor sighs, biting back a smile as he looks down at Imelda.

 

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it? By my count that is the one thousand and eighty-second time one of your brothers has interrupted us.”

 

“What?” Imelda stares at him a moment, taken aback. Then she frowns, shaking her head slightly. “No… no, that’s too low. It must be closer to three thousand and… oh, one twenty-six?”

 

“You're mistaken, mi querida.” Héctor is all seriousness, tone gentle and expression bland. “Two thousand and forty-four of those are both of them interrupting at once, which is distinct from one or the other.”

 

“As usual, mi amor, you are oversimplifying the situation.” Imelda matches him in gravity, lightly jabbing a finger into his sternum. “You're not accounting for one fetching the other before interrupting, which would naturally count for both 'one brother' and 'both brothers'.”

 

“Oh come on - you can't muddle things like that, Imelda – we can only consider _results_ in these circumstances.” Héctor can't contain himself anymore, not really - his voice is laced with laughter now, try as he might to stifle it, and he can see Imelda's smile even as she dips her head to hide it.

 

“You're not doing it justice that way, Héctor, it's the nuance of the thing we need to think about.”

 

Imelda still manages a more or less serious tone, but Héctor can feel her shake with suppressed laughter and that's all it takes – his own laugh bubbles up in earnest, and she laughs aloud when she hears it, and a second later he's leaning against the desk and she's leaning against him as they giggle in each others' arms like a pair of teenagers.

 

“He’s going to talk, you know,” Héctor says once they recover. “He probably ran straight to Óscar to gossip, and neither of us are going to hear an end to it.” He doesn’t mind that notion at all, really, but Imelda just might; he peers down at her, trying to gauge her reaction, and she tightens her grip, fingers curling into the back of Héctor’s shirt as she rests her head against his shoulder.

 

“Let him, then - they’ll have their fun sooner or later.” She sighs, shifting against him but not looking up. “They’re all well aware of how horribly stubborn I’ve been - I probably have it coming.”

 

“Stubborn? _You_?” He gently tips her chin up with one hand, brows raised. “Never! I won’t believe a word of it!”

 

She scoffs, thumping his chest with one fist - but he can hear the laugh under it, and there’s no force behind the blow, and the next moment she’s looking up at him with something close to shyness.

 

“Héctor,” she says, very softly and very slowly, “if... after all this time, I asked you to stay… what would you say?”

 

He leans forward, touching his forehead to hers once more.

 

“I would thank you,” he says, just as soft and slow, “for the chance to make the right choice.”

 

“You’ll stay, then?” she all but whispers, and Héctor nods.

 

“As long as you’ll have me.” He leans back a bit, studying her solemn expression, and grins. “So - I really _am_ the love of your life?”

 

She laughs just as he’s hoping she will, lightly thumping his chest again, and he laughs along giddily, arms tight about her.

 

“You are a _clown_ , Héctor Rivera.”

 

“I am,” he agrees. “A clown who loves you very much.”

 

“I love a clown, then. Hardly a new development.”

 

She moves her hand up to the back of his head, tugging him down as she leans up; he obligingly leans down to meet her, and this time there’s no interruption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for this story!
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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